


Masters of Bag End

by Saraste



Series: March Madness [19]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Braids, Cabbage Patch Hobbits, Domestic, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwobbits, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Battle of Five Armies, shirehusbands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-08 11:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10386072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraste/pseuds/Saraste
Summary: Bag End has two masters after mister Bilbo’s Adventure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will havemore parts.

There is a dwarf Living in Bag End, a gruff yet kind personage, as those who have exchanged more than one word with him can readily attest. He is polite (when he remembers), handsome (for a dwarf), and always kind to little one's, smiling warmly to every little hobbitling he meets while answering all of their questu

ions kindly and patiently. 

 

The only grown hobbit the Dwarf smiles at readily and unreservedly is Bilbo Baggins, master of Bag End, and what smiles they are, all besotted and warm.

 

The masters of Bag End create quite stir as the gossip mill tries to decide whether it is proper, especially after Master Bilbo and Master Oakenshield start to  _ garden _ , a few years after Mister Bilbo’s return. Some say it's as proper as can be expected from a married couple (even if it  _ is _ only in the dwarven way with braids and promises), others say that, well, Mr Oakenshield  _ is  _ a dwarf, to which others comment what should be done about it, then. Which is nothing, as to lay hand to another's garden when  _ Gardening _ is being done is never done and is an affront.

 

The masters of Bag End can be seen sitting side by side on the garden bench and looking at their special project, smoking leisurely. The most astute might observe that there is a new braid in each their hair, that Mr Oakenshield sometimes touches mister Bilbo’s briefly, smiling.

 

Their harvest, when it comes, happens unseen as is customary, and is only known about by the wreath of flowers on the round green door of Bag End, telling of a new occupant within the smial, although the healthy squalling at all hours of the day and night is proof enough. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli gets to hold his wee dwobbit cousin for the first time.

Kíli looks down at the squirming bundle in his arms, then up at his uncle, _ uncle Thorin _ , he corrects himself, as he has two uncles now. ‘She’s really cute.’

 

And she  _ is _ . Kíli had thought that he might need to embellish the truth, as he hadn’t known what to expect, really, but he’s used to different and judging things that do not fall under the bounds of dwarven standards of beauty. There’s a wisp of dark hair covering her tiny head, curly and soft to the touch, her ears are slightly pointed and her eyes, which are staring intently up at Kíli are a familiar blue.

 

‘Should she be that small?’ Tauriel asks. She’s sitting next to Kíli, has reached over a few times, eager to touch, but drawing her long fingers back as if she’s afraid her touch might break such a precious and young thing as the pebble in Kíli’s arms. Kíli knows that she has rarely seen any younglings of any sort of folk during her long life. She still stares at little pebblings with awe even after they have lived together in Erebor for years.

 

Bilbo harrumphs from where he’s sitting across from them in an armchair, Thorin closer to Kíli and Tauriel, his posture fitting the description of  _ looming _ more than anything. For a moment, Kíli wonders how Thorin even allowed  _ him _ to hold the pebble, even if she is his cousin. 

 

‘She’s of a perfect size, thank you very much,’ Bilbo informs him and his face is fond when he looks up at Thorin, ‘albeit I must admit I’m a little relieved that we hobbits do not make babies quite the same way as some others, as she  _ is _ a bit big for a hobbit-baby.’

 

Kíli hasn’t held anyone but Gimli in his arms when Gimli was a pebble, but then Kíli himself had been but a half-grown scrap of a dwarf and of course Gimli had felt big in his arms when he had been small himself. He is not saying anything about Bilbo’s words as dwarrow do  _ not _ grow babies anywhere but in stone and if Bilbo is saying what he thinks he’s saying then Kíli does not want it confirmed. Having talked about it with Tauriel had been enough, and is a source of further discussion, as having a pebble with Tauriel is something that fills Kíli’s heart with warmth.

 

‘Dwobbit,’ Kíli blurts out, just to say something.

 

‘What?’ his uncle, Thorin, not Bilbo, asks incredulously. Kíli thinks how Bilbo would never be able to do incredulous quite like uncle Thorin does.

 

Kíli throws all thoughts of how anyone makes babies and clings to his idea, of how the wee pebble in his arms is undoubtedly a mix of both dwarf and hobbit and should so be named accordingly. He grins unrepentantly. Tauriel sighs. ‘She’s a dwobbit, isn’t she?’ Kíli insists, knowing he’s being a tad ridiculous and not caring.

 

Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose and Thorin glares. 

 

Thorin advances.

 

‘I think that you’ve just lost your getting-to-hold-your-cousin privilege,’ Fíli, that traitor of a brother comments from his position, leaning against the fireplace-mantle in that showy way he has, even when there is no-one to impress. 

 

Except maybe Ori who’s in attendance as royal apprentice scribe and to create the pebble’s likeness for their mother to look at. Although Kíli is sure that their mother will nag at Balin enough so she can come and visit in person soon enough. 

 

She  _ is  _ their mother after all, even if she couldn’t come because her duties as Queen of Erebor held her back at the mountain. Because Thorin is here, in the Shire, living a quiet life and smiling like Kíli can’t remember him having smiled since he had been a dwarfling.

 

And it is good.


	3. Iris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo lets Tauriel hold the pebble, she is half lost in her own musings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hobbits like to give girls flower-names as per age old custom. I chose Iris because, to me, I strongly think of a blue iris right of the bat and the 'is ending is the same as in Dís (though without the accent) and in Frís (whom I might have borrowed in my head from Sansûkh, but with the greatest admiration). 
> 
> I think that there'll be a few more parts in this verse, haven't yet decided. (Also, different people holding wee Iris seems to be a recurring theme in this and I rather like it. It's completely accidental.)

Tauriel’s hands are reverent as Bilbo hands her the little dwobbitling, Kíli’s silly name has stuck and there is not getting rid of it, how much Thorin might try, Tauriel knows. 

 

‘There you go, little Iris,’ Bilbo fusses, tucking the little blanket more securely around her fragile body. 

 

‘She has such a lovely name,’ Tauriel comments as Bilbo sits onto the bench beside her, stretching his bare feet over the green grass.

 

In the garden before them Tauriel’s husband is in conversation with Bilbo’s own, and Fíli, who is still unattached but anyone would need to be blind to not see how the golden-haired prince looks at a certain young scribe of the Ri-family. There is already one brother married into the line of Durin, what is another more, really?

 

Bilbo chuckles under his breath. ‘Well, little seedlings are often named after flowers, if they are girls. And irises do so remind me of Thorin’s eyes…’

 

Tauriel, well-trained and observant, cannot help noticing the young scribe, Ori, from the corner of her eye, sketching away at them sitting on the bench. ‘Babies are such fragile little things, aren’t they?’ she says a little absently, distracted by thoughts of a child of her own with Kíli, if the Valar are greatly kind. Her and Kíli’s mismatch is greater than that of a hobbit and dwarf, she knows that well enough. The babe in her arms is a mere wisp of a thing.

 

‘Yes, they are,’ Bilbo turns to look at his nephews, ‘their lives are so very fragile. And so easily lost. There was a terrible frost in the winter and I ---’ But he does not end his sentence, even when any danger of a frost has now passed.

 

‘I am sorry that you had to worry,’ Tauriel tells him and looks down at the little bundle in her arms, a perfect mix of her parents, tiny features delicate, a shock of dark hair on her head, her tiny body wrapped in a flower-patterned blanket.

 

‘Yes, well, now we get to worry about the future.’

 

The late-afternoon sun is setting, becoming evening, kissing flower-stems and petals alike, fleeting on leaves and it is the perfect end to their day. The future is far ahead and the present is a lovely respite from the politics and the arduous reconstruction efforts of Erebor. And the young little life in Tauriel’s arms gives her hope of everything being possible, even possibly producing a child between an elf and a dwarf.


End file.
